Page 39 of Barbarous

“Hugh, it is Daphne,” she whispered as he tightened his grasp.

He stared up at her with mismatched eyes, one a blazing emerald green, one a cool, mossy gray, as if it had been leeched of color.

“Please, you must lie back, Hugh.” She grabbed his arm with her free hand and used her body to press him back, careful to avoid his ribs and collarbone.

“You lying bastard! You killed them—all of them!” The words were filled with a soul-wrenching agony and he thrashed wildly, pulling her onto his ribs. He yelped and released her, falling back onto the bed and shielding his chest with both arms, his eyes squeezed shut.

Just as suddenly as he’d erupted, he became still, his breaths coming in shallow, ragged bursts. Sweat ran down his temples in rivers.

Daphne wet a cloth in the basin of cool water and sponged his brow; he radiated heat like a banked fire. With her free hand, she stroked the fine silver-gold strands at his temples, a motion that seemed to soothe him. After a few minutes his breathing slowed, and he wasn’t perspiring so heavily. She continued to smooth his damp hair, feathering the fine lines around his eyes and tracing the deep groove that ran from the side of his nose to his mouth. His face was a study in contrasts, his angular chiseled jaw softened by full lips and long blond lashes that fanned his sun-bronzed skin. His nose was as straight as a knife’s edge, the white notch in the bridge the only flaw.

The urge to press her lips against his—to taste him again, to dip into the heat and the softness of his mouth—made her thighs tighten in a way that sent powerful spirals of pleasure straight to her sex. She forced herself to look away from his tempting mouth. Not that the sight of his scarred, muscular shoulders lessened her desire to touch him.

His arms were crossed protectively over his chest, his biceps bulging and his right hand bunched into a fist. She gently loosened the fingers, massaging his taut, striated forearm until the muscles relaxed. Once his hand was open she put her own against it, palm to palm.

Thomas had been a tall man, only a few inches shorter than Hugh, but his hands had been those of an aristocrat: white and elegant and unmarked, hands accustomed to doing nothing more strenuous than holding the reins of a horse and tending orchids.

Hugh’s fingernails were neatly squared and smooth, but the hand against hers was not that of a man of leisure. It was massive, its scars, enlarged knuckles, and the thick muscles of his fingers and wrist silent evidence he’d known punishing work. His forearms were brawny but well-defined, leading to heavily muscled biceps that were as bronzed as his face, making her realize he must go without a shirt on occasion. She swallowed at the thought, the sight of all this masculine power lying within her reach making her giddy and aroused as she recalled the last time his big hands had been on her body.

She laid his arm at his side, her palms sweating, her hands shaking. She needed to get away from him—away from who she became when his body touched hers. After a lifetime of rational thought and behavior, why had she suddenly developed such a capacity for self-destruction and foolishness?

She glanced up and gasped: he was watching her, both eyes open, his face a mask of feverish intensity. Moving faster than she would have thought possible for a man in his condition, his hand shot behind her neck and he pulled her down, his lips crushing hers before she could make a sound.

His arm was like a vise, holding her motionless while his hot mouth sealed over hers. This was not like the last kiss, when he’d gentled her. This time he pushed into her without hesitation, thrusting without invitation and showing no restraint. Daphne opened beneath the onslaught and he held her in an unbreakable embrace.

Instead of feeling caught or bound by his touch, his hold freed her and she surrendered to the silken heat of him, their mouths engaging in a challenging, sensual joust she had relived a thousand times over. This time she did what she’d been too scared to do before. She tilted her head and seized the offensive, stroking deep into his mouth and mimicking his actions, exploring him without reserve, her body shaking with . . . something.

He made a deep sound of pleasure and his hand slid down her neck, grazing the taut column of her throat before drifting over her shoulder and settling between her arm and rib cage, where he stroked up and down the side of her breast, a butterfly touch that followed the contours of her body and became firmer with each pass.

His tongue wrapped around hers and they engaged in an erotic dance as he taught her newer, more exciting moves. His hand caressed her side again, this time boldly curving around her breast, his thumb grazing her nipple through the fine silk of her dressing gown, moving in circles over the taut, sensitive tip, over and over.

She gasped and pulled away and he nudged her chin, tilting her head back to get at the sensitive underside of her jaw, nuzzling and sucking and biting his way down, and then back up to her lips.

Daphne opened her eyes and looked straight into his. Up close the injured eye was fascinating, bisected cleanly, a pale gray ring that surrounded a pupil that appeared to be frozen open, so large it seemed to swallow her whole. She wanted to dive deeply until she found him—the man who lived behind the easy laughter, the smooth, lazy charm, the skilled lovemaking.

He pulled her closer and the arm she’d been using to support her body slipped and she dropped onto his chest.

“Aiyee!” He thrust her away like a burning coal, pressing his body into the bed to get away. Daphne jerked back and pushed up her heavily fogged spectacles.

“I’m so sorry, Hugh!” She shifted her weight and Hugh hissed in a breath.

“Daphne, perhaps you should return to your chair.” He was cradling his chest, his expression apprehensive.

His words scalded her. “Oh. Yes, of course.” She leapt to her feet and dropped clumsily into her chair, commencing to fuss with her rumpled gown, too miserable to even think—a first in her adult life.

“Daphne?”

She twitched her skirt straight and retied one of the ribbons.

“Daphne, look at me, sweetheart.”

She looked up at the warmth in his voice and the endearment.

He smiled, and there was both amusement and pain in the expression. “I apologize for sending you away, but I’m afraid I can’t exercise any restraint if you remain within reach.” He gestured to the bedding that covered him, now tented around his hips.

Daphne’s brain took a moment to absorb what her eyes were seeing.

“Oh!” She looked away, lust, mortification, and curiosity swirling inside her. “It is I who should be apologizing for waking you.” She directed her words toward the bedpost.